


Breaking News

by Anyawen



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, Hurt/Eventual Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, mission-related mentions of human trafficking/sexual abuse/child sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28941090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: An impulse purchase in a Turkish street market leads James to introspective thoughts of the future. He finds himself willing to take a risk. As he prepares to return home to ask for the life he wants, a shocking bit of news sets him on a path of grief-fueled vengeance.
Relationships: 00Q, James Bond/Q
Comments: 46
Kudos: 135
Collections: 2020-2021 00Q Reverse Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliensundermybed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliensundermybed/gifts).



> My RBB entry to accompany the art by [aliensundermybed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliensundermybed/pseuds/aliensundermybed). With a million thanks to [Ato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean/works) for the beta eyeballs. The fic is definitely better for her input.
> 
> Fic is complete and will update M/W/F/M until all chapters are up, such that the whole fic will be posted as of 2/1.
> 
> A quick reminder to readers to note the tags. There's a bit of a shock in the story (the art made me do it!), but _**no archive warnings apply**_. Alien's art can be found at the end of ch1.

* * *

  


James recognized the handwriting on the envelope the newsman tucked inside the morning paper before he handed it over. There was no postmark. It had been passed hand to hand to reach him. He smiled. Of course Q knew where he was, no matter that he’d dropped off the grid after the completion of his last mission. 

The surveillance images he’d sent back to Q-branch of the associates his mark had met in Ankara had allowed MI6 to connect several key players in a network trafficking in guns, drugs, and people. He’d planted a handful of trackers through a combination of stealth and charm, and then vanished.

He could have gone back to London. He’d _wanted_ to go back to London. And they —both MI6 and Q— were expecting him back.

He'd acquired a burner phone and a Beretta, turned in his traceable Q-branch gear to a local MI6 outpost, and come here instead. A tiny village on the Turkish coast, it could have been the twin of the one where he’d spent time recovering —and sulking— after being shot off the train in Istanbul. He knew enough of the language to get by, and he was familiar with the ebb and flow of life here.

And he knew, given MI6’s failure to find him there before, he was likely to be able to escape detection for a while. Not for long —not with Q searching. But long enough.

He’d needed time to think.

Before his mark had attended the ‘business meeting’ in Ankara, Bond had trailed him through the market streets of Oltan. He’d drifted through the stalls of street vendors, keeping his eyes on his mark as the man doted on his mistress. The mark never took note of him, but the mistress had glanced back, and Bond had stepped up to the table in front of him, eyes flashing over the wares while keeping his target in his peripheral vision.

He hadn’t intended to buy anything. He’d only needed to look involved in haggling to make it seem that he was there for any reason other than following his mark.

When he saw it, though, he couldn’t not buy it. He didn’t quibble over the price and caught both the aborted eye-roll and the ill-hidden grin of the seller, who was torn between exasperation at dealing with a stupid tourist and glee at the easy money. The mark and his mistress were continuing to move through the market. Their progress was slow, but if he’d taken the time to bargain, they’d move out of sight. Besides, he didn’t care what it cost. It was perfect.

He’d handed over the cash and tucked the impulse purchase into his pocket, heart pounding, a surreal sense of relief and trepidation washing over him. He was both terrified and exhilarated, and had to shove both feelings aside to continue the mission. He’d think over the ramifications later.

The mission had wrapped up four days later, and he’d been in the wind ever since.

It had been nearly two weeks. Long enough for James to have worked through his residual doubts and fears to allow him to come to terms with the subconscious urge behind his spontaneous acquisition. Long enough to be sure.

James took the newspaper, and the envelope hidden in its folds, and wandered up the beach.

It was a blustery day, the late November skies heavy with grey clouds over the choppy Sea of Marmara. James didn’t mind the cool temperatures, but he frowned slightly at the wind tugging at the letter as he slid it from the envelope.

James—  
Please come back to me. I love you.  
—Q

He smiled, folding the letter back into the envelope and tucking it inside his jacket, safe from the wind. Reaching into his trouser pocket he pulled out a small metal circle. The ring was a wide white gold band with two tiny emeralds nestled in a network of interconnected engraved black lines and embossed gold lines. The overall look was reminiscent of a circuit board.

They’d been together for two years. Q was it for him, he knew, but he’d never really thought about formalizing their relationship. Making it official. He knew better than most that the future was never certain. He’d not wanted to make promises he couldn’t keep.

That hadn’t really changed. But he’d seen the ring in the market and he’d wanted to give it to Q. To offer him whatever life he had left. It wasn’t about making promises for a future he couldn’t guarantee. It was about giving Q his present: every minute of every day, for as many days as he could.

James knew that Q didn’t doubt him or his silent commitment, but he deserved more than unspoken assumptions. He deserved a visible sign, a formal declaration, a spectacle, if he wanted one.

So, with the mission completed, he’d taken the time he needed, and he’d arrived at a decision — even as Q’s note arrived to call him home. He tucked the ring back in his pocket and pulled out the burner phone. It was time. He was ready to book tickets on whatever transport would get him back to London fastest.

The wind caught the newspaper under his arm as he shifted. He pulled it out to re-fold it more securely and froze as he caught sight of a name in one of the articles below the fold.

—identified as Frederick Flyte was taken to Royal Free Hospital where he was rushed into surgery but did not survive his injuries—

James dropped the phone in the damp sand as he flipped the paper around, battling the stiffening breeze to read the whole article.

It was reported as a mugging turned deadly. The victim had been on his way home after stopping at the neighbourhood ALDI. Stabbed twice in the back. Body found by a woman out jogging with her dog when the dog had stopped to investigate the spilt groceries in the alley. She’d called 999 and stayed with the victim, applying pressure to the wounds, until paramedics arrived. He’d lost too much blood, in spite of her efforts. He’d coded in the ambulance and been resuscitated, taken directly into surgery upon arrival at hospital. He’d died of hypovolemic shock on the table.

His wallet, phone, and watch had been stolen. It had taken a day and a half for him to be identified as Frederick Flyte, senior IT manager at Universal Imports.

James remembered the day he learned Q’s official name. Not his real one; that came later. He’d seen the name on Q’s badge and had rolled his eyes. It was alliterative, and so obviously fake he couldn’t believe MI6 had assigned it.

“Hiding in plain sight,” Q had said. “Anyone truly trying to hide their identity would never do so with a name so unmistakably fictitious, thus, it must be real.”

James had rolled his eyes, but couldn’t argue.

The newspaper was four days out of date. Q had been attacked —killed— six days ago, while James had dragged his feet about returning to London, dithering over a decision he’d already made. The letter Q’d sent may have been written the very day he’d died.

The wind tore the paper from his fingers. James let it go, eyes no longer able to focus properly on the words, or the included photo that confirmed the identity of the victim.

He pulled the letter back out of his jacket and re-read it. The paper grew damp as tears fell on the brief lines, shed in grief and in fury, that he’d been here doing _nothing_ while Q waited for him. While Q was attacked. While Q was _killed_ on his way home from the shops. While James _hadn’t been there_ with him, teasing him about his love of sugary cereals while sneaking Hob Nobs into the basket.

What good were his thoughts of offering Q his life when he hadn’t been there to share Q’s? To prevent the loss of it?

Water sloshing over his shoes startled him, and he almost let go of the letter in surprise. The tide had been creeping in as morning progressed and had reached him, standing there on the beach, staring unseeing as he berated himself. 

James tucked the tear-stained paper away in the envelope and stashed it securely in his jacket before bending to retrieve his now useless phone with a curse. 

MI6 wouldn’t have let the article run if it weren’t true, but James still wanted confirmation. He’d have to get back to his room and use the landline. Turning, he jogged back up the beach, not even aware of the sand in his shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

James stopped short in the hallway outside the door to his room, hand twitching toward the gun in his shoulder holster. Not as familiar in his hand as his Q-branch Walther, it would do well enough if the person who had entered his room in his absence was still there.

Standing to the side of the door, he pulled out the room key. The tiny hotel in this village didn’t have electronic locks and cards. Before he could put the key in the lock, he heard a voice from inside the room.

 _“Eto ya_.” 

James shook his head at the words. Of course it was Alec. He was the only one besides Q who’d be able to find him. The _only_ one, now. He’d probably come to deliver the news about Q’s death, unaware that James had learned about it already from the paper.

He opened the door and found Alec seated at the tiny table by the window, positioned so that he had a good view of the neighbourhood and the door, but couldn’t be seen from the outside.

James closed the door behind him.

“You’re too late,” he said tonelessly. “I already know.”

“Ah,” Alec replied. “All right. Already have your flight sorted? I can give you a lift back to Istanbul. ”

“Not yet,” James replied, tossing his ruined phone onto the table as he collapsed into the other chair. “Where are you off to?”

“Chasing down a lead. The kid that stabbed Q turned himself in to the Met the next day. He was high off his tits on coke. Came in asking to be put into protective custody because he thought the man who’d hired him to stab ‘some bloody poofter’ had been following him.”

“It was a hit?” James asked sharply, leaning forward and staring intently at Alec.

“It looks that way. He said a bloke named David had paid him two hundred quid to kill Q. Showed him a photo and gave him an address.”

“Two hundred quid?” James repeated, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I know,” Alec replied.

“He’s in custody now?” James asked. “What about ‘David’? Does he even exist?”

“Kid’s in a cell at Six. He gave us enough info to find his meeting with David on CCTV. The angle wasn’t good enough for an ID, but he described a tattoo on the man’s knuckles and said he was missing half his left ear, and that got us a hit from the database. David Boyle, from Manchester. Kid must have been suffering from cocaine psychosis and paranoia to think the bloke was following him, though. As soon as Boyle hired him, he went back home.”

“He must not be there now,” James said. “Not if you’re here chasing him.”

“He’s not in Manchester, that’s true. He’s in the cell next to the kid’s at Six. I’m following up a lead on the man who hired _him_ , with a slight detour to find you.”

“Two intermediaries,” James mused. “Unusual. Still, when someone goes to the trouble of setting up two layers of anonymity, there might be more.”

“Might be,” Alec agreed. “I’ll find out when I track down Piotr Vasilic. I’m looking forward to having a conversation with him,” Alec replied with a malicious glint in his eye.

“I’m going with you.”

“You should go home, James. Let me handle this.”

“I am going with you,” James repeated, voice hard.

He glared at Alec until the other man sighed and nodded.

James rose, pushing the ruined burner phone across the table toward Alec. He gathered his few belongings from the room as Alec disassembled and disposed of the phone. Moments later they left the room and headed for Alec's car. James tossed his bag in the back seat while Alec pulled out his Q-branch issued tablet and handed it to James, open to the mission file. James read everything they’d managed to put together about Piotr Vasilic while Alec drove them to Istanbul.

“It’s not him,” he said as Alec parked the car not quite three hours later. “He’s a big fish in a small pond — one that has no connection to the ocean that is MI6.”

“Well,” Alec said as they entered the airport and walked to the ticket counter, “we’ll just have to convince him to share the name of the shark.”

Alec used his MI6 black card to book their tickets to Minsk, and then again three and a half hours later to rent a nondescript sedan when they arrived. It was just gone three, and the grey clouds were clearing away as the sun sank lower in the western sky.

Vasilic owned a half dozen night clubs — legitimate businesses through which he operated heavily in the drugs and sex trades. He also owned a casino at the north end of the city and was known to enjoy an occasional hand of poker. They made their way there.

James got a drink at the bar and took a seat at a high stakes table while Alec prowled the floor. He kept his bids tame and lost as many hands as he won until Alec returned and caught his eye. A hint of a nod was all James needed. Luck was with them. Vasilic was here. Time to put on a show to draw him out.

An hour later James was up nearly sixty thousand Belarusian Rubles, the rough equivalent of eighteen thousand pounds. He’d clearly attracted an audience. A pair of heavyset and obviously armed men had taken up positions nearby when a man matching the photo in Alec’s files slid into a chair next to him.

Their conversation was brief and superficially pleasant, the threat lurking beneath. James smiled and accepted the ‘invitation’ to have a chat in a more private location.

Standing, he adjusted his cuffs and followed their mark to a door marked ‘employees only’, unsurprised when he was flanked by the two heavies. As the door closed behind them, he threw an elbow back, catching the first guard solidly in the solar plexus, and grabbing his head when he doubled over. A quick snap and the man collapsed.

The second guard had drawn his gun, but James was too close for him to use it. James threw his left arm over the thug’s outstretched right arm, pinning the gun hand against his side. The gun went off, and James heard a cry from behind him. He headbutted the heavy, and when the man’s head jerked back, punched him viciously in the throat. He felt the cartilage crumpling under his fist. Keeping a firm hold on the man’s right arm, he spun around even as the man fell, and pulled the gun from his hand.

Piotr Vasilic stared at him, left hand clamped over a wound in his right bicep.

“I’ve decided to return your hospitable invitation for a private chat with one of my own,” James said, indicating that Vasilic should continue down the hallway. “Just out that door.”

The exit at the end of the hallway opened into an alley behind the casino. Alec was waiting for them, car idling in the bitterly cold air of the newly fallen night. James motioned for Vasilic to get in and climbed in beside him, keeping his gun trained on the Belarusian as Alec began driving.

“Now then,” James said as they pulled out onto the street. “We’re going to go somewhere nice and quiet for our chat. Somewhere we won’t be interrupted. Somewhere we won’t cause your lovely neighbours any distress with anything they might overhear.”

“We’re considerate that way,” Alec chimed in, merging onto a larger thoroughfare leading north out of the city.

“What—”

“We’ll get to your questions after you’ve answered ours, Mr Vasilic,” James said mildly. “First, though, congratulations are in order. It’s not often that a local crime boss manages to level up to international infamy in quite such a spectacular fashion.”

The man opened his mouth to reply, but James twitched the hand holding the gun, and he closed his mouth again with an audible click.

“You have come to the attention of Her Majesty’s foreign intelligence service, Mr Vasilic.”

Vasilic shook his head, eyes wide. James lifted an eyebrow in invitation.

“MI6? No. Surely not. I’m just a businessman,” Vasilic protested, eyes darting from James’ face down the gun and back. “Of no interest to the British Secret Service.”

“I think you’ll find they’re quite interested in the man who put a contract out on their Quartermaster,” Alec drawled from the driver’s seat as he took an exit from the highway and began to follow a smaller mountain road.

James watched as Vasilic shrank back against the worn upholstery of the seat.

“You didn’t know,” James said. “You hired David Boyle to kill a boffin in London and had no idea who he was.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vasilic insisted. “I don’t know David Boyle. I never ordered a hit on any _boffin_.”

There was fear in his tone as he repeated the clearly unfamiliar word.

“No? Well. Boyle knows you,” James replied. “He gave us your name, told us you hired him. Our techs are working now to connect his finances to yours. Won’t take long. When they do, you’ll be lucky to spend the rest of your life rotting in a prison in London. If you’re unlucky, well…”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Alec said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “They’ll find the money. What matters is whether you tell us what we want to know before they find it. If you make us wait, we’ll have to find creative ways to spend the time.”

“We were quite fond of our Quartermaster, Mr Vasilic,” James growled as Alec slowed slightly to follow the road’s sharp switchbacks up the mountain.

Vasilic chose that moment to lash out, left fist flying toward James’ face. James ducked the clumsy jab and dropped his aim to somewhere non-lethal. He pulled the trigger, blowing out Vasilic's left knee even as the Belarusian lunged for the door he'd wrenched open and disappeared into the snowy night.

“Alec!” James shouted, holding on to the seatbelt and leaning out the open door to peer back into the darkness.

“Shit!” Alec said, pulling over roughly.

James clambered out of the car and stood for a minute, staring back down the road. The sky was clear, and the night was all the more bitterly cold for it. A gibbous moon hung low in the sky, casting just enough light to differentiate between snow and shadows.

“Right. Well. Not the first time we’ve tracked someone in the dark,” Alec said as he came to stand next to James.

“He won’t get far,” James replied as they started walking.

Tracking Vasilic turned out to be easier than they expected.

The snow on the side of the road a half-mile back from where Alec had stopped the car showed clear evidence of a disturbance. They followed the bloodied, churned snow, weapons held ready, until they found Vasilic slumped against the side of a tree. 

The Belarusian had a large knot already forming on his temple and pink-flecked foam at his mouth. His right arm wrapped around his left chest protectively, for all the good it would do. He watched them approach, each breath an audible whistling gurgle. His ruined knee bled sluggishly as the wound began to freeze.

James glanced at Alec. Vasilic’s injuries were potentially survivable, if emergency medical attention were immediately available. Half an hour outside of Minsk on a mountain road in the dark of night, his chances were nil. From the look on his face, he knew it, too.

“Tell us who hired you,” James said, “and we’ll make it quick.”

Vasilic had cursed them weakly, but five minutes later they were walking back to the car with the echo of a gunshot still ringing through the night.


	3. Chapter 3

James caught the keys Alec tossed him and climbed into the driver’s seat as Alec settled into the passenger seat, phone at his ear. He listened to Alec’s side of the conversation as he turned the car around and drove back into Minsk, heading to the airport.

“Got what we needed from Vasilic. Yes. You can stop digging into his connection with Boyle and focus on Eduardo Garza. Garza was his connection for drugs, working out of Mexico City. Already on the way. Yes. Right. Good.”

Forty-five minutes later they left the car —keys in the ignition, blood in the back seat— in the short term parking lot at the Minsk airport and headed inside to the ticket counter. James let Alec handle buying tickets on the earliest flight to Frankfurt, where they could make a connection for a direct flight to Mexico City. 

An hour and a half later they were airborne. The flight was too small to have a first-class cabin, but it was only two hours long. James spent the flight with his hand tucked inside his suit jacket, fingers running along the edges of the Q’s letter, feeling the bulge where he’d tucked the ring into the envelope. He allowed himself the time to silently indulge his grief and regret, knowing that he would need to set it aside soon. He would need to be ready when they arrived in Mexico City. Ready to suppress his feelings of loss to focus on his anger, turning it from blind rage to cold fury and using it to bring down the person behind Q’s murder.

In the Frankfurt airport, James took advantage of their two-hour layover to visit the shops and shower facilities. When he joined Alec at the gate the other man handed him a sandwich and a paper cup of coffee.

“You’re sure you want to come? You could go back to London. Moneypenny says Q—”

“I’m coming,” James replied sharply. “I can't— I _can't_ hear about it now. I'm going to see this through. I have to. I'm going to find whoever was behind the attack on Q and make them regret it.”

He couldn’t afford to hear about any of it. The mugging, the stabbing, the fear Q must have felt, the pain he must have been in, alone and bleeding out in the alley. The way he _died_. James couldn’t face that now and risk being paralyzed with grief. Later, when the job was done, he’d hear it all.

Alec frowned, but nodded in acceptance.

James slept on the flight. It was far from restful sleep, but it was good enough. It would have to be.

They spent the next two days scouting the compound that housed Garza’s drug empire and noting the movements of the man and his guards. They noted the weak spot in security and moved in.

James employed all the anger he’d bottled up, became a cold killing machine dispatching the guards patrolling the north side of the secluded property where Garza lived. Trusting that Alec had taken out the south guards, he moved into the house.

He found an older woman in the kitchen. She put down the knife she’d been using to chop vegetables when she caught sight of him, raising her hands. Glancing around the kitchen and not seeing anyone else, James stepped closer.

“ _Dame tu celular_ ,” he said, and kept the gun trained on her as she reached a hand to retrieve her phone from a pocket.

She extended it slightly toward him, then slid it onto the table and stepped back when he made no move to take it from her.

James gestured with a flick of the gun that she should precede him across the room. He picked up the phone as he passed the table, and dropped it into a sink filled with soapy water. He stopped the woman in front of the door to a large walk-in refrigerator. She looked resigned as he closed her in, locking the door.

He continued through the house, clearing the rest of the rooms on the ground floor. The third door he opened on the first floor revealed a nursery, occupied by a young woman nursing an infant. Her eyes widened with terror and she clutched the baby closer.

He stood in the open doorway, gun trained on the woman, and heard the quiet pop of a single silenced gunshot and a shout of pain. The woman clearly heard it as well, letting out a small whimper. A moment later James heard a soft whistle. He whistled back.

Alec appeared a few minutes later, peering into the room to see the pair that James still held at gunpoint.

“Garza’s downstairs. I have him secured in the garage. Find a place to stash these two and let’s see what he has to say about the hit.”

“I can help,” the woman said in lightly accented English, voice shaking.

James felt Alec shift.

“Why would you do that?” Alec asked.

“For my life and the life of my son,” she said. “I do not want to become bargaining pieces or collateral damage in your drug war.”

“Not a drug war,” James replied. “Garza was involved in a plot to kill someone important to British Intelligence.”

The woman paled, tightening her hold on the baby, who fussed in response. She shushed him, lifting him to her shoulder and covering herself before turning again to face them in the doorway.

“‘The hit’ you spoke of?” she asked.

“Yes,” Alec answered. “Can you help, or should I go beat the information I need out of him?”

She flinched at the mention of violence, but raised her chin and gave a sharp nod.

“I can help. I keep his books. There was a large deposit in September. I didn’t know what it was for, only that it did not come from his normal channels. Eduardo used some of it as a credit against a shipment of discounted product for a client in Eastern Europe.”

“Vasilic,” James growled. “Where did the money come from?”

The woman shrank back at his tone.

“If you let us live, I will show you the information.”

“Garza is a dead man,” James said tightly.

She bit her lip, clearly realizing that it was no use arguing, then nodded.

James flicked a quick glance at Alec, then nodded to the woman.

She visibly steeled herself, then crossed the room and ducked between them, leading them to the room at the end of the hallway. Alec put a hand on her shoulder and she froze, waiting until he’d opened the door and cleared the room before entering behind him. James followed, eyes on her, listening for any sign of movement from the rest of the house.

“I keep the books on paper,” she said, pointing to a shelf of slim volumes. “Eduardo says it’s safer that way.”

She pulled one of the books from the shelf, leaning back as she did so to keep the baby nestled to her shoulder as she moved. Alec stepped back as she crossed the room to sit on a low couch. She laid the baby down between her body and the arm of the couch, turning to keep herself between them and the infant as she opened the ledger.

James stood in the doorway and watched as she rifled through the pages, drawing a finger down the entries.

“Here,” she said, rotating the book and offering it to Alec. “This is the notation about the credit for the discounted product Eduardo sent to Piotr Vasilic. And here,” she pointed, “is where the money came from.”

“Jacob Dillon,” Alec read aloud.

James heard the sound of paper tearing as Alec ripped the pages from the ledger. The woman inhaled sharply, laying a hand over the baby sleeping next to her. James watched as Alec closed the book and handed it back to her.

“I suggest you stay here until you hear us leave,” James said as Alec crossed the room. “And I also suggest that the first thing you do when you leave this room is go let the old woman out of the refrigerator.”

He saw the look of relief flash over the woman’s face at the knowledge that she wasn't to be left alone with an infant in a house filled with bodies.

“Bring blankets with you,” he said as he turned to follow Alec.

They exited the house by way of the garage. James put a bullet between Garza’s eyes before climbing in the passenger door of the man’s SUV, which Alec had already hotwired.

Five hours later, aboard a flight to Boston, James looked over the information Q-branch had dug up on Jacob Dillon. While it was entirely possible that he was just another link in the chain leading to the person behind the Q’s attack, James had a gut feeling that wasn’t the case.

This man wasn’t a local thug, like David Boyle, or big fish in a small pond, the way Vasilic had been. He wasn’t a drug lord with connections like Garza.

Dillon was a hacker. A loner, not part of any organization. Recently released from prison.

Vasilic hadn’t known his target was the Quartermaster of MI6. He’d been hired to kill Frederick Flyte, senior IT manager at Universal Imports. It was unlikely that Garza had known. Was it possible that Dillon didn’t know?

Dillon hadn’t been trying to cripple MI6 by taking out their Quartermaster. He was simply after Q. After Freddie.

Whatever this was, it was personal.

That suited James just fine.

It was personal for him, too.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Alec said, turning to stare at James while speaking into the phone.

James glanced at him briefly, then looked back to the road. They’d arrived in Boston late the night before and had taken a room at a nearby airport motel to grab what rest they could. Now, as James navigated them through the Boston streets to the coffee shop where Jacob Dillon worked, Alec was on the line with R getting last minute intel.

“Right. Okay. Yes, _fine_. Thanks, R,” Alec said, disconnecting the call.

“They found something?” James asked.

“They confirmed the things we already knew, following the money trail from Boyle, to Vasilic, to Garza. They’ve now connected it to Dillon, but Dillon never had the money in his account.”

“He hacked someone?”

“Not just ‘someone’. He hacked _us_. This bastard used money he hacked in and siphoned from one of the cover projects at Universal Exports to pay Garza for the contract on Q.”

“In other circumstances, I might appreciate the sheer cheek of that,” James said as he pulled up to the kerb across the street from the cafe where Dillon worked. “Right now, I’m just glad to have confirmation that he’s the origin of the hit.”

“R says they’ve traced the location of the IP address where the hack on Universal Exports originated. It belongs to the person renting the flat above the book store just there,” Alec said, pointing to the storefront next to the cafe.

“Someone left their wifi unsecured,” James said as he stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him before straightening his jacket.

“Someone got hold of a computer powerful enough to violate the terms of his parole, if he’s able to use it for a hack like this.”

“Q could hack the CIA with an off-the-shelf knock-off brand laptop.”

“I bet he could,” Alec said with a laugh as they crossed the street.

“He did. Felix was both impressed and unhappy.”

“Get me an Americano,” Alec said as he turned to enter the bookstore, leaving James to go into the cafe.

James nodded and pulled the door open, bells chiming over his head to announce his arrival to the staff behind the counter. He pulled out his wallet as approached the display case of baked goods. A barista with a blond ponytail and a neatly trimmed goatee, wearing a name badge reading ‘Jake’, smiled at him.

“What can I get started for you this morning?” he asked.

“A large Americano and a cup of Earl Grey,” James replied.

“Can I get your name for the order?” Jake asked.

James pulled a business card from his wallet and slid it across the counter. He watched Jake glance down at the card and physically flinch away from the sight of the Universal Exports logo.

“We’ll take them to go,” James said with a cold smile when Jake looked up at him.

“O-of course,” Jake stammered. “I’ll get those started for you.”

James watched as Jake moved around the small galley of the cafe, dodging out of the way of another barista. When the man picked up the pot of coffee, James was ready, ducking as the pot and its hot contents were flung at his head. He was up and over the counter after Jake as the man dashed through the employee door into the staff area. James was a step behind him as he flung the back door open and ran through before collapsing in a heap as Alec punched him in the face.

“No coffee?” Alec asked.

“It spilt,” James replied, hauling Jake to his feet and shoving him against the wall.

The other barista poked her head out the back door.

“I’ve called the cops,” she said.

“Unnecessary,” Alec replied. “The CIA is here.”

He gestured, and the barista glanced up to see a pair of men coming down the alley.

“Felix, show the nice lady your badge,” James said.

“You assholes were supposed to wait for me,” Felix grumbled at the two MI6 agents as he pulled out his credentials to show the woman, and then the police as they arrived.

“M owes me a bottle of single malt for making me deal with the two of you,” Felix asserted as he waved another agent forward to take Jake into custody.

“I’ll let him know,” James said, stepping away from Jake so the CIA agent could approach.

The hacker slumped down the wall slightly, but caught his balance and pushed himself upright. He glared at the approaching agent.

“You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder,” Felix said as the agent pulled out his handcuffs. “You’re to be extradited to the UK to face their judicial system for the attempt on the life of the Quartermaster of MI6.”

“The what?”

“Frederick Flyte. The Quartermaster of MI6.”

“MI6?” Jake repeated. “Nah. That little bitch worked for Universal Exports, same as this guy,” he said, jerking his head at James, who had torn his gaze away from their suspect to stare at Felix.

“‘This guy’ is the biggest pain in MI6’s ass,” Felix replied. “He’s also their best agent —sorry, Alec.”

Alec shrugged and pulled his gun in one smooth move, pulling the trigger before Jake had finished wrestling the CIA agent’s weapon free of its holster.

“Okay, maybe it’s a tie,” Felix said as Jake crumpled, the stolen gun falling from lax fingers. ”I am not happy about the additional paperwork, Alec. Two bottles.”

“I’ll send you a case,” Alec replied.

“Attempt,” James interjected. “You said ‘the attempt’ on Q’s life.”

“Yeah,” Felix replied, clearly surprised at James’ confusion. “He's alive and recovering. When Moneypenny called to let me know you two were on a flight to Boston, she said the doctors were pleased enough with his progress to allow them to move him to a safe house with an attendant nurse. That and I bet they weren’t thrilled to have a dozen agents roaming the halls to make sure the hospital was secure.”

“Q’s… alive?” James asked, turning to face Alec.

“You said you knew!” Alec said, eyes wide.

“He’s alive,” James repeated.

“Yes, he’s alive. He was recovering from surgery to remove the damaged kidney when the kid turned himself in, and Six thought it safer for him to play dead until we uncovered who had put the hit out on him. We had Boyle a day and a half later, and then I left to track Vasilic, with a stop to let you know and send you home.”

James swore he felt the world shift on its axis. Q was alive. Injured and recovering, stuck in hospital, alone. Without his cats for company or comfort. Without James.

“I have to go,” he said, filled with urgency and yet strangely rooted to the spot. “Now.”

Alec was cursing in Russian as Felix was calling out instructions to one of the local police his agent had pulled in to help contain the scene.

“I thought you knew!” Alec repeated as he took James by the arm and pulled him after Felix. “When you refused to hear anything about his condition and insisted on coming with me I thought you were making sure he was safe before going home. That the threat against him had been neutralized. It was almost romantic.”

“James, get in the car,” Felix said as they reached a police patrol car. “Officer Williams is taking you to the airport. By the time you get there, I’m sure there will be tickets waiting.”

James slid into the car, hardly hearing Alec protesting at staying behind to fill out the bloody paperwork. He’d have smiled at the petulance in Alec’s tone, but his mind was elsewhere.

Q was alive.

The officer driving him to the airport turned on his lights and sirens and raced to the airport. James threw a shouted thank you over his shoulder as he darted from the car when they arrived —leaving the passenger door open in his rush to get inside.

The flight info displayed on the monitor inside the terminal showed the next flight for London was on Virgin Atlantic, leaving in forty-five minutes. Bond jogged over to the queue at the ticket counter, wondering if there was a way to bypass the dozen people in front of him.

“Mr Bond?”

James turned to find an older woman in a Virgin Atlantic uniform smiling at him.

“Your tickets, Mr Bond. Your flight leaves out of gate E5. Security is this way.”

James followed the woman, flashed his ID at security, and ran down the concourse. There were still a dozen or so passengers waiting to board when he arrived at the gate and joined the queue.

His seat was in economy class. He hardly noticed.

The flight was six and a half hours long. James spent it with the envelope crumpled in his fist as he stared, unseeing, out the window. It was the longest flight of his life.

Moneypenny was waiting for him at Heathrow.

“Where is he?” James asked as he fell in step with her heading to the exit and the sleek black car waiting for them at the kerb.

“The safehouse in Ruislip, on Windmill Way,” she said.

“I know it,” James replied, ignoring the door the driver held open for them.

“James? We’ll take you there.”

“Not waiting in traffic,” James said, striding past the car to flash the gun in his shoulder holster at a man about to climb on a motorbike. “Be a dear and deal with him, and call in the plates, won’t you?” he called back to her as he took the man’s helmet and settled it on his own head.

A moment later his suit jacket was flapping in the breeze behind him as he gunned the engine and tore through the dark, but mercifully dry city streets.

James didn’t feel the cold of the late November night.

Q was _alive_.


	5. Chapter 5

James parked the bike at the kerb outside the safehouse, noting the grey van parked across the street and the twitch of the curtains in the window upstairs as he walked up the driveway. The door opened before he could knock. A junior agent stood in the doorway, his phone to his ear.

“Yes ma’am, he’s here. Yes.”

The junior agent disconnected the call and moved aside, motioning for James to enter.

“The nurse is in with him now,” the agent said, leading James into the house and indicating a closed door.

James crossed the sitting room and paused, hand hovering over the doorknob.

Q was alive. He had been attacked while James was away, and left to recover alone. He’d asked James to come back to him and received radio silence in return. James found himself uncertain of his welcome.

He pressed his hand to his chest, over the jacket pocket that held Q’s letter. He heard the rustling of the paper against fabric and felt the hard lines of the ring between his palm and his chest.

Q was alive.

James knocked on the door, then turned the knob before waiting for a response. The sight of Q, upright though clearly hurting as he returned from the ensuite, stopped him in his tracks.

Q had stopped, too, and the nurse at his side looked at him with concern.

“James,” Q breathed.

James was across the room between one heartbeat and the next, pausing inches away from Q. He wanted to pull Q into his arms, but feared hurting the recovering Quartermaster. He raised a hand slowly and cupped Q’s cheek, breath stuttering in his chest as Q closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. James hardly noted the muted click of the door closing as the nurse left them alone in the room as he lifted his other hand to stroke up and down Q’s arm.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he said, leaning in to kiss Q’s forehead. “I should have been here for you.”

Q pulled back and looked up, his expression sober.

“Why weren’t you?” he asked, curious and hurt.

“I had some thinking to do after the Ankara mission, and then … and then you were dead. I thought—”

Q raised his hand to cover James’ hand on his face. He gave it a light squeeze as he pulled away, turning to shuffle toward the bed.

James burned with the need to help in some way, but he didn’t know where it might be safe to touch in offering support. He followed behind Q, ready to catch him if necessary.

He watched as Q sank down onto the double bed, and saw the grimace as he manoeuvered his legs up onto the mattress and lay back on the pillows piled against the headboard. Q shifted around until he was comfortable before looking back up at him.

James pulled the duvet up, tucking it around Q, and sat perched on the edge of the bed, drinking in the sight. Q was pale, and there was a tension around his eyes and mouth that spoke of pain. His hair was greasy and the normally riotous curls lay limp. But his eyes were bright and curious, and the fingers he tangled with James’ were warm.

“You thought I was dead?” he asked. “But you were with Alec, weren’t you?”

“I was. He found me the same day your letter arrived,” James said, pulling the envelope out of his jacket with his free hand. “The same day I read in the paper that you’d been killed in a mugging. I thought he’d come to give me the news of your death in person. He thought, when I said I already knew, that I meant I knew you were alive. That the article in the paper was a cover story. And when he said that he was hunting for the man behind the attack on you, well. I wasn’t about to let him go on without me on a mission to destroy the bastard who’d put a target on your back. He figured I was intent on making sure you were safe by removing the threat before coming back to you. I didn’t know you were alive to come back to.”

Q took that news in, eyes wide. “Did you get him, then?” he finally asked. “The man behind it all?”

“We did. It was apparently a personal grudge from someone who had been able to track your old CRYPT1D hacker name to your Frederick Flyte alias and found you listed as an employee at Universal Exports.”

“I haven’t used the CRYPT1D name in nearly a decade,” Q said, trying to tug the covers up higher. “Not since I… oh.”

“Oh?”

“I burned that name after I used it to expose another hacker to the authorities,” Q replied. “I had done a couple grey hat jobs with a hacker who went by the name W4LLFL0W3R. He was good, but I’m better, and when he had a job that was a little more complex than he could handle, he asked me to assist. It paid well, but he wouldn’t tell me where the money came from. I did some digging and found the job was a bit darker than I’d been led to believe. His employer was a drug smuggler who was branching out into human trafficking. Kids, mostly.” 

Q shivered in distaste, but James could see from the way he was curling in on himself that he was also feeling cold. James put the envelope on the foot of the bed, and stood, shucking off his jacket while slipping out of his shoes. A moment later, dressed only in his pants, he slid into the other side of the bed, scooting closer until he could press up against his chilled partner. Q relaxed into the warmth.

“So you turned him in.”

“I alerted local authorities to the activities of his employer. It took months, but they organized a sting and took down the smuggling ring and found half a dozen kids. There were records of others. I don’t know if they ever tracked them all down,” Q replied. “Reports in the news said that his employer rolled over and gave him up, but W4LLFL0W3R was able to hide most traces of his involvement. He was going to evade arrest until I pointed the investigators directly at the kiddie porn on his server. He tried to claim it had all been planted to incriminate him, but …”

“But?”

“He appeared in three of the videos with very underage kids. Even if the other photos and videos had been planted, those were evidence of his guilt. Two of the children in the videos with him were linked to the smuggler, so he faced charges of trafficking as well,” Q said, sounding pleased with the outcome. “I thought he was in prison.”

“He was. He got out about a year ago and apparently set his sights on identifying CRYPT1D and paying him back for his time behind bars. He found your cover identity, but didn’t know you were the Quartermaster of MI6, and had no idea that anyone would come after him for targeting you. Alec and I disabused him of that notion.”

“You killed him?” Q asked.

“Alec did,” James replied. “I was a bit distracted by Felix mentioning the charges he’d be facing were for _attempted_ murder. That was the first I knew that you were alive.”

James tightened his arms carefully around Q, grateful beyond words to be able to do so. Q shifted to lean more of his weight against him, snuggling down farther under the covers.

They stayed that way, cocooned in warmth and silence for long enough that James wondered if Q had drifted off to sleep. He was recovering from a traumatic attack and major surgery. He must be exhausted.

“James?”

“Yes, love?”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Hmm?”

“In Turkey, after Ankara,” Q clarified.

“You, mostly. Us,” James replied. “The past. The future.”

“No wonder it took you so long.”

“It did take longer than it should have done, and not just because it meant I wasn’t here for you. I already knew the answer before I realized there was a question. I just … had to think it through. Consciously.”

“What was the answer?” Q asked.

“‘Yes’.”

Q poked him in the side.

“Fine then. What was the question?”

James glanced down the bed to the envelope resting on the duvet near Q’s feet. He gently disentangled himself from Q and sat up, then reached out to snag the envelope and drag it closer. Picking it up, he opened the flap and shook out the silver circle.

“I saw this in one of the stalls in that street market in Oltan. I bought it without thinking because it was exactly what I didn’t know I wanted.”

Q propped himself up against the pillows. James noted the way his cheeks were pinking as his eyes darted back and forth between James and the ring he held. The blush was breathtaking, and it made James hopeful.

“You wanted a ring?” Q asked.

“I wanted you,” James replied. “Wearing my ring.”

“James?”

“I know the future is never certain, and I never understood the idea of offering uncertainty like it was a prize. But I saw this ring and I knew that even if I didn’t understand it, I wanted it. I want you, and every minute I can have with you. I am certain of that.”

He held the ring out to Q.

“I would very much like to marry you, if you’ll have me.”

Q held out his left hand, fingers splayed wide.

“That’s a yes, then?” James asked as he slid the ring onto Q’s finger. 

It was a bit tight over the knuckle, but then it settled into place, emeralds and gold lines sparkling against silver and black. It looked as good there as James had imagined.

“Yes,” Q replied, grinning. 

James leaned in for a kiss before resuming his position snuggled up behind Q —who was _alive_ , and who’d said _yes_. 

The future would bring whatever troubles it had in store, but they would have the present, each and every day.


End file.
